Journal

Friday, May 24, 2013

Dark eyes drank Damian in from across the room, feeding what they saw
to the tiny flames and stoking their unnatural fire. Righty stalked to the foot
of the bed, shoulders rippling as he prepared to pounce. Damian felt his hand tighten
around the hilt of the large knife he'd taken from Righty's twin. Lefty's carcass
lay between them, pool of blood percolating outward.

What now? Damian's panicked brain
asked. He had no idea of how he'd managed to slay his first assailant, yet here
he was with the man's knife, facing the second–are these even men?
Damian backed away.

“I didn't particularly like him,” Righty
said, giving the body a quick glance as he stepped over, “but I like you even less.”

Well, that's comforting, Damian
thought.

Be quiet and let me focus, Inigo
responded.

Focus? I'm the one in danger here!

Be quiet!

Damian resisted the urge to prod. If
the voice in his head wanted quiet, Damian would comply. It wasn't like he didn't
have more pressing uses for his brain.

“Yeah, well,” Damian responded, “you
should leave now if you don't... if you don't want to... to... die or whatever.”

The threat sounded hollow to his own
ears. Righty grunted. And kept coming.

From somewhere inside of his black sport
coat, Righty produced a switchblade. He flicked it open and whirled it around, perhaps
hoping to intimidate his foe. It worked. Damian tried to swallow, but even the smallest
drop of spit couldn't find its way down his constricted throat. He coughed loudly,
sputtering.

Righty saw the weakness and leapt. The
switchblade flashed out toward Damian’s neck, slicing the air. Damian once more
trusted instinct.

Reflex pulled him down while his knife
hand shot up. It deflected the swipe away from Damian’s body. Righty regrouped,
and aimed another sweeping slash at Damian's midsection. The hilt of Damian's blade
caught that one. The move pulled Damian face to face with his assailant. Inhuman
black eyes stared back, the tiny flames flickering wildly.